Beyond the garden and over the moors
by Emily the Tsarina of Tokyo
Summary: Dickon feels left out from Mary and Colin's new life together. Will he find new adventure to occupy him, with the arrival of young Scottish woman? After 1993 movie, before 2001 sequel, Back to the Secret Garden. Rated T for safety. DickonxOC. DISCONTINUED
1. Chapter 1

Dust, the rabbit, stood still listening with his ears cocked. His little bunny nose wiggled as he sniffed the damp air. Something was moving in the underbrush, but he still couldn't decide if it was friend or foe. He crept along the fringe of the bushes, snuffling round here and there. His nose bumped something.

A boot.

"Yah!" Dust scrambled backward from the attacker, slipping and sliding on the fall leaves. He dashed the short distance to the opposite bushes, cowering within the shelter of the leaves.

Dickon knelt, extending his hand. "Come on now, I won't hurt ye. Sorry about that, Dust. I didn't mean to scare ye."

Dust quivered in bunny anger. _Yes, you did, you rotten boy. That was a deliberate attempt to scare me to death._

Dickon winced. "Well, maybe I was having just a little fun wi' ye. I didn't mean to scare you that badly though. Didn't ye know it was me? With that terrific sniffer of yours, I was sure ye'd figure out."

Soot, the old blackbird, landed on Dickon's shoulder, cawing at Dust. _Silly rabbits. Scared of their own shadows, they are. Can't tell the difference between fox and a human. Not a smidgen of backbone in the whole furry body._

Dust sniffed at the blackbird. _Stupid crows. Just because they can see everything by flying up, they think they know everything. Go back to your nest, old-timer._

Dickon chided them both. "Now, now. Stop it, the both of ye. You're supposed to be getting along. Each of ye is a magnificent animal in his own right. Comparing ye two would be like comparing cherries to grapes. Or was it pears to oranges? I forget. Anywho, let's just try to get along now, eh?"

A twig snapped behind him and Dust scampered away, while Soot winged his way over the trees. Dickon turned, his hand on his small knife. He sighed. It was Martha.

She nibbled her lip, fiddling with her apron. "I— I know it's been hard on ye, Dickon, but— but ye could at least visit them every once in a while. It's not like they don't care about ye anymore."

Dickon looked away and stuck his hands in his pockets. "They don't need me anymore. They've got each other. They've got the garden."

"Dickon, it's been six years you first discovered the garden—."

"Aye, six years, and Mary and Colin are engaged to each other, Lord Craven has opened the garden, and you're still working at that castle. Martha, it's over. I helped them a bit back then, but they're doing fine on their own, now. They don't need me."

"Yes, they do, Dickon—!"

"No, they don't. Are ye not hearing me, Martha? I'm not going back. I'm eighteen! I've got my own life, now!"

Martha shook with anger, her Yorkshire accent broadening. "Now, ye listen ta me, young Dickon! Ye may think that ye have yer oon life, but yer wrong, laddie buck! Ye sit aboot up here, mopin' aboot wi' yer wee animals, thinkin' aboot Miss Mary! Ye've never gotten o'er her, have ye? Yer heart still belongs ta tha wee lass from o'er tha sea!"

"She's got Colin—."

"Aye, but who've ye got? No one but yer animals, Dickon. It's not good for ye!"

Dickon scowled. "Ah'll decide what's good for me, Martha. Ah doon't need yer help."

She crossed her arms. "Ye need somebody's help, tha's fer sure." She calmed herself and her accent. "I'm just saying, Dickon. Ye need to let go of her. Interact with other humans once in a while. Ye can't spend your entire life up here on the moor."

He put his hands on her shoulders. "Sure I can. I've been doing it most of my life." He walked past her to his horse.

Martha followed him, as he mounted onto the cream-colored horse's bare back. "Think about what I said, Dickon. And… come home every once in a while. Mother's getting worried. Ye can't just drop off food at the door without staying."

He bent down and kissed her cheek. "No promises, Martha."

She watched him ride off across the heath. It broke her heart to see her younger brother suffer in silence, but this was just something that she couldn't fix. He'd have to figure it out on his own.

Dust crept out to watch with her. She looked down at him and smiled. "Hullo there, little one. Are ye a friend of Dickon's? Watch out for him, will ye? He's going to need a lot of help."

The rabbit just wiggled it's nose and scampered under the heather.

"Oh, um, excuse me? Excuse me? Sir?" Paisley jumped backwards to avoid being trampled by a cart. She squeaked, dashing out of the way when she saw a carriage coming straight towards her. The blood pounded in her ears as she dodged through the fast-moving dog-carts and buggies. Why was the city so busy? (In all honesty, the "city" was actually a rather small town, but to someone from the lonely wilds of Scotland, it seemed like a rather crowded place).

She frowned as she stood to one side of the street, her English accent slipping as she expressed her consternation. "Och, all ah'm tryin' ta doo is cross tha danged street and get a ride! Is that too much ta ask?"

"I beg your pardon, madam, but are you in need of any assistance?"

Paisley turned, startled at the man who had appeared suddenly at her side. "Oh, I didn't see you there. You gave me quite a start, sir. Well, I'm not quite sure. Is there any way you could help me get across this street?"

He smiled. He was a tall, dark-haired, mustached man in a fine suit, holding a walking stick with a red pommel-stone. Paisley took notice of his silk cravat and top hat, which looked terribly expensive. "Of course, madam. Just take my arm, and I'll escort you."

Paisley took the proffered arm gingerly. "Thank you, sir."

Amazingly, they made it across safely, with several of the carriages pausing for them. When they reached the other side, Paisley thanked him, but she was puzzled. "I can't understand it. They stopped alright for _you_, but they completely ignored _me_. Even the pedestrians acted as if I wasn't there."

The gentleman chuckled. "It may be because you are a lady, and I am a gentleman. Women don't usually venture out without an escort. Might I inquire why you are doing so?"

Paisley shrugged. "You may inquire as much as you like, but seeing as we're perfect strangers, I have no obligation to answer you. As it is, I'm extremely grateful for your assistance, and I choose to reply. I'm traveling to the Misselthwaite Moors to stay with my uncle. He lives in a small house out there."

He had been taken a bit aback by her initial statement, but he expressed pleasant surprise at her last ones. "You don't say! I live out there as well. My carriage is waiting for me here, would you like to join me? I can see you as far as possible by the main road, but you may have to trek quite a while after that. The moor houses aren't usually near the main road."

Paisley bit her lip, a habit that made them red. "We-e-ell, I don't know, sir. Would it be proper to travel with a gentleman I don't know?"

"You'd have to ride with several gentlemen you didn't know if you took the carrier. It'd be much safer this way, madam."

"That sounds logical. Very well, I accept. And I'm not 'madam'; I'm 'Miss'."

"My humblest apologies, miss. You look very mature for your age."

She stared at him undecidedly. "I believe that was flattery, sir. I don't take kindly with strangers who try to get on a person's good side by giving them false compliments. I don't trust them."

"Again, I apologize."

"Your apology is accepted with my thanks for the ride you're giving me."

"Right this way, miss." He led her to a very fine carriage, waiting for them by an inn. The driver was a bit sour looking, but the four horses were magnificent. Their coats gleamed rich, glossy chestnut, and Paisley guessed that their manes would have been silken and flowing, if not for the odd looking knots they were pinned in.

The gentleman helped her into the carriage, and put her small suitcase on top, with other luggage. She settled herself there, waiting for him to finish his orders to the driver. He ducked inside, taking off his top hat and saying, "There now, it's all settled. So tell me, what's the name of your uncle?"

The carriage began moving, giving Paisley quite a jolt. "What? Oh, right. My uncle's name is Harold Burke." She paused a moment before asking, "Is the weather usually like this? Grey and cloudy, I mean."

He smiled. "On the moors? Always. Except every so often. Then we have the slightest hint of sunshine, but just as you've gotten used to it, it disappears behind the clouds until next time."

"Oh, well, I suppose I'm used to clouds. Scotland is ever so cloudy up there in the highlands. That's where I'm from."

He nodded. "I know."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "Do you now? And how is that, pray tell?"

"I heard your accent when I first approached you."

"Ah," She colored. "I see. Going back to the weather, though, I must confess that I was expecting something a bit sunnier, but at least it'll feel like home. I don't know what I'd do without the clouds."

They continued chatting about the weather, the moors, and they even digressed into sheep, but before she knew it, she recognized her stop. "Oh, wait, hold on," She consulted a letter which she produced from her pocket her pocket, nodding. "Right, Uncle said to look for a rock wall with a red cloth stuck in one of the cracks. Look, there. Isn't that it?"

He peered out the window with her. "I do believe so. Yes, there it is." He banged on the ceiling with his walking stick, signaling the driver to halt. The carriage lurched and Paisley scrambled out, holding onto her carpetbag for dear life. The driver retrieved her suitcase and handed it to her, almost as if he was relieved she was not continuing with them further.

She shook hands with the gentleman and thanked him for the lift. He apologized that they couldn't take her further, but like a gracious young lady, she agreed with him.

The driver closed his door and he waved from within, and it was only when the carriage was already rolling and gone that she realized she didn't even know the gentleman's name. "Och, crivens."

She trudged to the wall, handling herself like a lady as she jumped over the wall with strength and precision so that she didn't land in a pile of sheep poo that lurked just beneath. She glanced around cautiously and hoisted up her skirts, marching purposefully through the heath. "Now, Uncle said to walk straight from the red cloth and eventually I'll get there. I wonder how long is 'eventually'?"

Her bags weren't terribly heavy, due to her lack of possessions, and her legs were wonderfully strong, due to her lack of idleness in Scotland, and the walk was perfectly lovely. She had heard of the famous moors that seemed to go on forever in "the bonnie wee land o' the big-britches o' England", and she was learning how right those stories were. But, as I said before, it was not a tiresome journey. She rather enjoyed it, in fact.

Paisley was about to go skipping and swinging her bags, when she saw the horse. It cream-colored and wild looking, except for the rider it bore. He was young man, about her age, strong and fierce, and she would have mistaken him for one of her people visiting if not for the fact that he was driving some sheep.

She blinked and did a double-take. No, she hadn't imagined it. He really _was_ driving sheep from the back of the horse. He looked a bit bored though. For some reason, it irked Paisley to see someone acting so lazy on the job. Unfortunately, she'd been brought up better, and so she didn't go over and give him a right proper dressing-down. But she did glare at him pretty poisonously as she passed him.

Dickon watched the girl march past, glaring at him. What was the matter with 'er? She stopped to pet one of the sheep, which, surprisingly, didn't bit her as soon as she tried. She said something to the animal and glared at him again, before starting off again. She didn't look like she was coming back, so Dickon yelled, a bit meanly, "Oi, look at the toff, eh? Come down to say 'ello to the little fluffy pets, 'ave we?"

Paisley stood stock still. He couldn't be talking to her. He wouldn't dare. But she turned around and saw him smirking at her, and she exploded. "Ye noo good son o' a—! Ah oughter box yoor ears for talkin' ta me like tha'! Hoo dare ye call me a blinkin' toff, ye ship*-nanny! Ye're noot a gen'leman! Noot even a man! Ye're a wee babbie thinkin' he's _so_ clever!"

Dickon blinked.

Paisley fumed.

And of course, like any sensible young lady, she stomped away angrily, leaving him in stunned silence.

His horse tossed its head. _What in the name of hay was that?_

"I… I think it was a woman…"

_Sounded more like a sharp-fanged vixen._

"That too."

#################

* Paisley was trying to say "sheep", but her highland brogue got in the way. Also, if you can't understand what she said when she broke out in her Scottish accent, first she said, "All I'm trying to do is cross the street and get a ride! Is that too much to ask?" and when she told off Dickon, "You no good son of a—! I ought to box your ears for talking to me like that. How dare you call me a toff, you sheep-nanny! You're not a gentleman! Not even a man! You're a little baby thinking he's _so_ clever!" Oh, and toff means a fancy rich person, or a snobbish aristocrat.

A/N: hey everybody! this fanfic is set after the events of the 1993 film, but before the events of the 2001 film, _Back to the Secret Garden_, with the exception being that Dickon does not die in a war like it says he does in _B.t.t.S.G._


	2. Chapter 2

Paisley's temper cooled down after walking about… well, she didn't know how many miles she walked, but it felt like five. "Och, crivens. I suspect he'll be around, and I'll have to see him, and maybe even talk to him. Crivens, why couldn't I just keep my mouth closed like a proper young lady?" But a small part of her (not very small) was very pleased with his dumbfounded expression. "I expect he'll be boiling mad at me. Och, well. At least the sheep liked me."

It presently came to her attention that while she had been talking to herself, a small house had become visible on the next hill. It was quaint and rustic, very simply trimmed, and the shrubs and "garden" (if you could call it that) were spilling over everywhere. There was a goat standing in front of the door, munching on a piece of what might have been shrub, garden, or wool underwear. It looked suspiciously like the third. Several sheep milled about, filtering in and out of the open gate to a grazing pasture. A few were having their tea, eating something lumpy and orange that looked like a carrot pawed up from the cleared part of the garden.

In a word, the small farm was chaos.

And Paisley couldn't stand chaos.

She went through the gate, carefully closed it behind her, marched right past the sheep, shoved the goat aside, and knocked loudly on the door. When she didn't receive an answer she tried again. "Eh? Eh? What? Who's there?"

"Uncle Harold? It's your niece, Paisley."

"Go 'way! Haven't got a niece!"

Paisley stared at the still closed door in shock. "Yes, you have! On your sister Martha's side!"

There was a pause, then a mumbled, "…Oh… that's right… I do…"

"Uncle Harold, don't you think you should open the door?"

"Oh, right, right."

The door swung inwards, revealing a tall, burly, white-haired man in tweeds, blinking in the light. Paisley stuck out her hand. "Uncle Harold, it's wonderful to finally meet you."

He stared at the proffered hand, scratching his back. "Nice to meet you, too… er, Plaid."

"Uncle Harold, my name's Paisley."

"Knew it was some kind of pattern."

"I don't suppose you knew that your sheep and goat are roaming around, did you?"

"What?" He looked around her at the mess. "Oh. Look at that."

"Are they allowed to go around like that?"

"Nope."

"Should we gather them into the grazing pen?"

"I'm surprised you haven't done that already."

Paisley stared at her Uncle, who leaned against the doorframe lazily. "Well, I… I'll just set my bags down and do that right now."

"Good idea."

Paisley herded the sheep expertly in the strange way shepherds and shepherdesses have done for centuries, carefully nudging here and softly speaking there, until the sheep were all in the grazing pen, chomping happily upon grass and other things. She was about to turn back proudly to her uncle, when she noticed that the goat was still there. Instead of allowing himself to be herded, the goat had simply stepped off to the side, out of the way. Now he was chewing lazily on a wet, grey thing that was definitely a wool sock.

Paisley pushed up her sleeves, groaning inwardly. Goats like this one were hard to herd. As her dear mother had always said, "They're just like ship … Except… they've got brains. And a verra hard head, ye ken?" Paisley ken alright, and that's what worried her. She didn't want to end up on the ground, in the mud, in front of her uncle, just because of one clever and hard-headed billy-goat.

"Right, you," She muttered to the goat as she approached it. "You don't give _me_ any trouble, and I won't give _you_ any trouble. And believe ye me, Ah'll give ye the trouble o' yer life."

The billy-goat lazily ran at her, head down, sock still in its mouth. Paisley nimbly side stepped, and it trotted on by. It lifted its head, blinking and looking around for a figure on the ground. Paisley smirked. Ha. He wouldn't find _her_ in the mud. Not today, anyways.

A fairly long piece of rope was hanging on a scraggly bush next to her, and Paisley casually picked it up behind her back, tying a simple noose. The goat turned around and saw her. Paisley smiled winningly. "That's right. Give it a go— I dare ye."

The goat seemed to think about her challenge, but ultimately his instinct took over. He charged at her, and she was ready. Side stepping once again, she held out the noose, which the billy-goat charge right into. Before he could do anything else, she tightened the knot so that the loop wouldn't come off.

The billy-goat stopped, trying to figure out what exactly had happened. He felt the tug on his neck and knew he was beaten. "Come on, then. Into the pen with the others. Mind you don't eat the very wool off their back, you greedy beast."

The goat strained on the rope, trying to pull away, but Paisley pulled harder. "Oh, no you don't."

She managed to pull and push him into the pen, where he promptly began eating grass. "See?" Paisley said, wiping a small bead of sweat from her forehead. "Much happier in here with _real_ food, aren't you?"

The billy-goat raised his head, his mouth full of grass. "Maaa-aaa."

She smiled. "Oh, go on, ye." Looking backwards at the goat, she trudged back to the front door. "I think that's all taken care of, Uncle—." She stopped.

The door was closed again. "Uncle Harold!"

"Eh? Who's that?"

"_Uncle Harold_!"

The door opened and Uncle Harold squinted at her. "Oh, right. Hello again, Polka."

"It's Paisley, Uncle."

"Knew it was a pattern."

"Uncle, the sheep and goats are in the grazing pen."

"Good. That means you can milk the cow."

"Cow? You only have one?"

"There's only one of me, and I don't drink a lot of milk."

"All right. Where are the bucket and the barn?"

"Bucket?"

"To catch the milk in."

"Oh, I just use a jug."

"A _jug_?"

"I just said that, didn't I? Hang on a moment and I'll go get it." He disappeared inside the house and the door almost swung shut, but Paisley stuck her boot in the frame, keeping it open. She was afraid if the door closed, he'd forget about her again.

He came back with a chipped, brown, earthen-ware pitcher that smelled awful. "Here it is. I don't have a stool so you'll just have to squat."

Paisley held back blush at his interesting choice of words. "Alright, I'll be able to manage—."

He cut her off, saying, "Then I want you to feed the cow and her calf. Feed the chickens; get their eggs; and muck out the cow's stall. I'll see you in a bit." He reached inside to a hidden coat rack, putting a battered cap on his head.

Paisley watched him make his way across the yard. "Wait a minute. Where are you going?"

Without turning around he answered her. "To _The Apple Tree_ pub."

"How long will you be gone?" she called.

"Several hours, I expect." He was out the gate and closing it.

"_Several hours_? Whatever for?"

He finally turned, sighing as if he was explaining a simple thing to a simple child. "Because there're several miles between here and dere. And there're also several miles between me first pint and me finishing one. See you tonight, Periwinkle."

Paisley watched him in shock, standing there on the doorstep, holding a sad looking pitcher.

He disappeared over the crest of a hill, and she shook her head. "I'd best be getting down to the job. Er, jobs."

xxxXXXxxx

Paisley finally sat down in a creaky chair that sounded like it was going to break any moment. She sighed tiredly. "Well, finally done." She glanced outside groaning. "It's a long time past sun-down too."

In addition to the tasks her uncle had given her, she had, upon entering the small hovel, discovered that it was an absolute mess. Being incredibly tidy as she was, she hadn't rested until everything was clean.

And she didn't get a rest for a long, _long_ time.

She scrubbed floors, dishes, and windows, cleaned every surface she could find, and put the various items littering the place in a bin so that Uncle Harold could decide what to do with them. Among some of the many things she found were a sock with three holes in it, a pan without a bottom, something lumpy, black, and hard that may have once been bread, and a shredded bucket-hat.

Paisley grew weary all over again just thinking about it. It was only when her eyelids started to droop that she remembered that she hadn't made any supper. Doggedly, she managed to get up from the chair and cook a simple, but delicious meal, which she tried to keep warm as she waited for her uncle.

She was starting to nod off, when her uncle came stumbling in the door. She stood up quickly, snatching the handkerchief from her head. "Welcome back, Uncle. I've prepared—. I say, Uncle, are you alright?"

His voice was thick but he sounded competent. "Yes, Stripes, er, Plaid. I'm fine."

"Well, I was just saying that your supper is ready and still warm."

"Already ate."

She stared at him. "You what?"

"Ate at the pub. I've had me supper. You can go ahead and eat, though." He stopped, looking around the place as if seeing it for the first time. "It looks… different."

"I cleaned up a bit."

"Good grief, I can actually see the floor!"

"They were very dirty."

"Well, alright. See you in the morning."

Paisley watched him troop towards a back room. "Where are you going?"

"Bed."

"Hang on a minute. Where am I to sleep?"

"Guest room. Never actually had any guests to room in it though. Goodnight."

Paisley stood there awkwardly for a few minutes after he left. She decided she might as well eat awkwardly as stand awkwardly, so she sat down at the table, said a quick blessing, and ate with a ready appetite.

When she was finished, she was too tired to think any more about her confusing situation, so she took a candle and carefully tiptoed into the back hall. There were two doors, one to the left, and one to the right. She assumed that the one whose door was closed was where Uncle was, so that left the one on the right.

When she entered, she was immediately engulfed by cobwebs. Stifling a shriek, she waved them away, praying that there hadn't been any spiders in them. The small candle in her hand illuminated a small, ugly, musty-smelling room that had a single bed in which resided a single moth-eaten mattress with no sheets on it. Paisley glanced back in the hall, hoping to see some sort of linen closet, but there was no such luck.

She but her lip and glared angrily at the bare mattress. "I don't care how many things have eaten you— I am going to sleep on you tonight, and I'm not going to be afraid of whatever might be hiding in you. My name is Paisley McBurl and I am a highland woman. No matter how awful this hole seems, I am going to stay here!" She dropped her small suitcases, jumped onto the bed and lay down stiffly. Presently, she curled up and added, choking on tears, "Because I've got nowhere else to go…"

xxxXXXxxx

Dickon stared at his plate moodily. His mother served him some more potatoes, but when she wasn't looking, he slipped them to one of his younger brothers, who shoveled them into his mouth hungrily. Dickon's mother beamed at her son, sitting at the head of the table. "I'm pleased ye came for a bit of supper, Dickon. We've been missing ye around here lately."

"Ye've been getting the food I drop off, right?" he asked.

"Of course! And it's well appreciated, Dickon. But it is nice to see ye once in a while."

"That's what Martha said," he said blandly.

"She's right. Even she, who can't some round all the time, knows that ye've been gone an awful lot. What do you do up there on the moors? Gone night and day you are. Very peculiar."

"I get odd jobs, herding sheep and doing other stuff no one wants to do."

"Ye don't have to work, Dickon. We get along fine here. And don't try to deny that you're the one dropping off money here and there."

One of the little ones piped up. "Mum says you're becoming an 'ermit, Dicko'."

Dickon ruffled the little girl's hair. "I'm not a hermit, Lucy. I'm just… I prefer to be alone."

"That's what Mum said an 'ermit is when I asked what an 'ermit was."

Dickon looked at his mother. "Mum, I'm not a hermit."

She sat up straight in her chair huffily. "Well, ye sure act like one."

He rose, dumping the uneaten contents of his plate into the plates of his younger siblings. He walked around to the other side, giving his mother a small peck on the cheek. "I'll be fine, Mum. Thank you for supper."

He was about to close the front door, when he heard his mother shout after him. "Ye bugger! Ye haven't even eaten anything!"

He smiled, climbing up on his horse to find somewhere that would allow him to stay the night in return for work.

He thought about what his mum said, deciding something right away.

He was _not_ a hermit.

He was more of a… wanderer.

_If you're a wanderer, though_, he thought to himself. _Why do ye only wander close to home? Or, more specifically, close to Misselthwaite Manor?_

He tried not to think about it as he urged his horse faster.


	3. Chapter 3

Uncle Harold awoke, smelling something funny. Well, not funny exactly. Strange

Foreign.

Delicious.

He shook his head, blinking. Delicious?

Pulling on his trousers and securing them with suspenders, he ambled out into the hallway. He peered into the kitchen/living room/entryway, but what he saw stopped him. He stared.

A huge, steaming plate of eggs, oven-toasted bread, and a bowl of porridge had been laid out on the small table, all steaming enticingly. It was a beautiful spread, on an ugly table graced by a small bunch of heather in an oddly-shaped jug in the center. The scent Harold Burke had smelled was a hot breakfast— something he hadn't had in a long time.

Paisley turned from stirring the porridge on the small stove to see her uncle gaping from the hall entrance. "Good morning, Uncle Harold. Breakfast is ready and I have more porridge here, in case you'd like seconds."

He sat down in his chair silently, still staring at the meal. She bit her lip, worried. "Is something wrong?"

He shook his head, trying to appear unperturbed. "Are ye going to join me?"

"I've already eaten, Uncle. I've also fed the chickens, gathered eggs, let the sheep out to graze, fed the cow, milked her, mucked out her stall, as well as the sheep's. Is there anything else I can do? I took the liberty of trimming back some of the bushes in the front yard. They were a bit hazardous."

He thought a while, and Paisley thought he might give her the rest of the day, but he came up with something else to do. "I need ye to go into the village to pick up some more oats. John Quimby'll have 'em."

"Ah, yes. I see. When shall I go?"

Uncle dug into his breakfast with a hardy appetite. "Now."

"Now?"

"I just said that…"

"Alright. I'll be back as soon as I can. As I said, there's more porridge on the stove."

Her uncle didn't respond other than a jerk of his head which she took to be a nod. She took her shawl from the hat rack, wrapping it around her as she headed out the door. She paused, sticking her head back in to ask, "Which way to the village, Uncle?"

"Up yon hill and keep going."

"Ah, thank you."

With that, Paisley stepped into her Wellingtons and set off out on the moors.

xxxXXXxxx

Dickon scuffed the dirt angrily. Stupid farmer, sending him to do woman's work. Well, at least he was getting paid, which is more than he could say for the last farmer, who had stiffed him. As he neared the village, a black, scruffy-looking dog who was tied up in the yard of one of the small houses barked at him. _Intruder! Intruder! Stranger! Bad! Not to be trusted! Go away, hermit!_

Dickon laughed at the dog, throwing it a bit of dried meat. "Go on then, Gail! Ye know it's me. Why do ye always bark at everyone? And always the same warning. Except that bit about me bein' a hermit. I am not, ye great silly beast."

The dog snatched up the meat, barking gratefully. _Because I am the protector! It is my job to bark the warning at everyone who comes into the village._

"Oh, aye? Well, then, what about the folks who come in from the other side of the village, eh?"

_Uhhhh…_

_Mmm… Purr, that big oaf couldn't protect grain from a bird. He's all muscle and bark, but no brain…_

Dickon stopped, watching amusedly as Franny the cat swished her tail under Gail's nose. "'Allo, Franny. 'ave ye been in the cream again?"

Franny purred smugly. _Of course. I never get caught. But how did you guess, clever boy?_

"You've got a little mustache of white there, Franny. Not hard to guess where you've been."

Franny immediately sat down to wash herself with her paws right in front of the big black dog. Gail growled. _Stupid cat! Get away from me with your catty smelling fur!_

Franny practically rolled her eyes as she started on her ears. _Well, of course it smells like cat, you big dope. __**I'm**__ a cat._

_Cream-stealer!_

_Lame-brain._

_Smelly tramp!_

_Loud-mouth._

_Er, uh… BARK, BARK!_

Franny smiled smugly. _I win._

_Do not!_

_Face it Gail. I'm smarter. I'll __**always**__ win._

_Hey, where'd the hermit go?_

_I don't know, you must have scared him off with your stupidity._

Dickon had grown tired of the argument and had wandered off to find the farming supply shop. It had been established by a young city-man, hoping to capitalize on the farmers of the surrounding area's need for repairs and supplies. He was a smart business man, because it worked. His was one of the most active businesses in the village, second only to the local pub.

Dickon didn't like him, though. He seemed too slick, like an eel, darting in at profitable opportunities and seeming always on the up and up. Never trust an eel.

Dickon ambled along the market street, taking his time, not really wanting to have to deal with the eel. He stopped to talk to a few more village dogs who knew him and were friendly, but he soon found himself at the right shop all too soon. He grimaced, bracing himself as he went in.

The shelves and racks were stacked neatly and the room smelled of leather and feed. It was a good smell, but it was laced with a heavy cologne, emanating from the black-haired man at the counter with a suit that was too fancy for such a humble village.

Dickon fought back the urge to scowl at the smiling man, who clasped his hands in what he thought was a warm welcome. "Ah, Mr. Dickon, welcome back! Something for the family farm? Or personal?"

Dickon gritted his answer out. "I'm on an… errand for Mr. Shorner. I need to pick up his repaired hoe and a new bridle for his working horse. He's already paid for the repairs and I've got the money here for the bridle."

John Quimby nodded and smiled as if he knew exactly what to do. "Very good, very good! Over her we have some new bridles, just in from a big company in the city! Guaranteed to keep your horse under perfect control without chafing the muzzle—."

"Mr. Quimby. I'm not here for your fancy-talking slick business. I'll take a regular bridle, one without all the fancy trimmings and trappings like those ones that cost an arm and a leg."

"Ah, I see you get right to the point. Very well, these bridles next to the more… expensive ones will do nicely, I think. Very sturdy and made of strong leather."

"And how much will it cost, then?"

"Ah, you see— Ah! Good morning, madam! I'll be with you in a moment."

A clear, refined voice rang out behind Dickon. "Please don't hurry on my behalf, sir. Please, finish your business at leisure. I'll just browse a bit."

Dickon recognized the voice and turned to the young woman from the moors yesterday.

Paisley blanched as the young man turned. Gracious mercy and crivens! It was that rude young man from the day before. She had expected to see him in the village eventually, but she hadn't expected their meeting to be so soon.

She tried to recover her composure, but she couldn't conceal an embarrassed blush. "…" Her brain wouldn't work to make her mouth say anything intelligent, so instead she turned to look at some of the feed they had, running into a barrel of dried meat in the process. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry! Oh, thank goodness it didn't tip over."

Dickon wanted to smile at her clumsiness, thinking that light dusting of pink made her look especially pretty. He shook his head remembering the way she had told him off. After how strongly she had expressed her aversion to him, he doubted she would appreciate any attention. He also wondered at her lack of an accent. He had heard it quite clearly the day before, but now it was absent from her speech. In fact, she sounded like a refined aristocrat from the city. Like John Quimby, without the silky undertones.

Speaking of the devil… He remembered that he had been in the middle of a conversation with the eel and turned back to him.

Quimby had a dreamy look on his face as her stared at the young woman, who now had her back to them. Dickon wanted to strangle him, because he could guess what thoughts were going through his oily mind as his eyes went over the woman's figure. "AHEM."

Quimby blinked, turning back to Dickon. "Eh? Oh, ah, yes. The bridles." He rattled off a list of prices for each of the bridles. Dickon knew what was in the price range Shorner had given him and chose accordingly, though he still wanted to strangle Quimby with one of the bridles.

Paying the eel and taking the bridle, he waited as the slippery salesman went into the back to get the hoe. His eyes wandered over to the pretty girl frowning at the feed. Her hair was wispy-brown, with hints of red highlights beneath the exterior, pulled up into a loose bun which looked in danger of falling apart at any moment. Her skin was tanned lightly, even more so than the girls around-a-bouts, but it wasn't rough. It was quite smooth looking, as if she were a lady who used rose-water. His sister Martha had told him all ladies used rose-water.

As far as he could tell, her eyes were plain brown, but brown eyes always meant sincerity, or so his mother said. Dickon felt as if he were looking at a familiar face from someone he had known long ago. It wasn't until he was thinking about the secret garden that he realized who she looked like.

Miss Mary.

_Or, Lady Mary as she'll soon be_, he thought bitterly. Her face, her hair, her shape… Everything about her reminded him of Mary.

She peered at him curiously, and he realized he was staring. One slender eyebrow went up on her pretty face. "What? Have I got something on my face? Or are you just having a stare at the toff?"

Dickon looked down at his shoes. "Well, ye're obviously not a toff. Ye said as much yesterday."

"I said a lot more than that yesterday, not all of it called for, either."

He looked up at her quizzically. "Is that an apology?"

She shrugged. "In a way. You weren't at all innocent yourself, though."

"Right, well, I'm sorry I called ye a toff."

"And?"

"'And' what? I don't think I called ye anything else."

"You called the sheep 'little fluffy pets'. That's not entirely civilized, don't you think?"

"They're sheep! They don't give a— I mean, they don't care! And what's it to ye anyways? How come ye care so much about sheep, then?"

Paisley straightened, holding herself high at his impertinent question. "I happen to have grown up with sheep my whole life, and I can tell you, if you don't treat your sheep with respect, you'll no sooner find a herd that's as stubborn as billy-goats."

"They weren't even _my_ sheep! I was just herding them for pay!"

"All the more reason to be kind to the animals. Suppose the real owner were to find that his docile sheep had been transformed into an impossible group, after a _certain_ shepherd had been herding them? You can bet he wouldn't be hiring you again."

Dickon threw up his hands in consternation. "This is ridiculous, woman! It's not like they care if ye call 'em a name!" He instantly realized this was untrue. Among the animals that told him their secrets, sheep were the most defensive, if not the least brainy. There had been something in the herd, a general feeling of hurt or distrust. He hadn't taken much heed because of his mood.

Paisley stiffened. "How dare you call me 'woman'! You're not even a man!"

"Aye, ye told me I was a 'wee babbie', if I remember correctly."

"Well, you act like one."

Quimby came out of the back, lugging along a hoe. Paisley glared frostily as he gave it to the uncouth young man, who took it and stomped out the door. She stared out the window at his receding back.

Quimby rubbed his hands together. "Now, madam. What may I do for you?"

She turned to him, but as she hadn't really noticed his appearance before, she was a little surprised. He was a tall, thin man in a very fine suit, whose black hair had been slicked to be perfectly smoothed back, with a greasy curl or two in the front. For some odd reason he made her nervous.

"Yes, I'm here to pick up the order my Uncle placed. His name is Harold Burke and he ordered some oats."

"Yes, of course, I'll be right back." He disappeared into the back, reappearing quickly with a large sack that looked quite heavy. He wheeled it out on a sort of small, flat wagon. "Here we are. I'll just take it out to your wagon and—."

"Oh, dear," Paisley broke in. "I'm afraid I haven't brought a wagon. You see, I walked here."

"My dear lady, that is quite a problem. I must assist you by taking you home in my own wagon."

"Oh, no, no, don't trouble yourself." She did not want to spend another moment alone with him, not to mention out on the moors in a buggy with him. "I'll be able to manage."

He looked concerned. "But, it is quite heavy, my dear lady."

She didn't like the way he kept calling her 'dear lady', so she smiled firmly, saying, "I'll be alright. Good day, Mr. Quimby."

"Good day…"

Paisley left him looking confused as she lugged the large sack in her arms. A small grin of triumph danced across her lips, but the sack was extremely heavy, and she realized it was going to be a long, arduous walk home. "Och, crivens, Paisley. What've ye got yerself intoo?"

"So your name's Paisley, is it?"

Paisley swung around, catching Dickon in the stomach with her sack of oats. He gasped, clutching his middle. Paisley gasped too, concerned. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry! I didn't see you there, and, well, you startled me…" She trailed of watching him get his wind back.

He smiled ruefully. "That'll teach me to sneak up on people."

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Fine, fine. Maybe a few broken ribs, lots of bruises…"

She scowled at his grin. "That is no joking matter. I would feel absolutely terrible if I had injured you with my carelessness. You're fine, as far as I can see. A blow from a soft bag of oats will do you no real harm."

"Ye're right there, ye are."

"Now, if you're sure you're alright, I'll bid you good day."

Paisley made to leave, but the young man stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "Wait a minute. Where d'ye think ye're goin' wi' that giant bag of oats?"

"Home, of course."

"Walking?"

"Yes."

"How far away is that, then?"

"Several miles."

He stared at her hard, making her blush. "Ye canae carry a big bag like that over several miles."

"I don't have any other choice."

"Oh, yes ye do. Ye'll come with me. My family has a wagon that'll get ye there. I'll drive ye."

Paisley tried to put her hands on her hips, then remembered the large sack in her arms. "Hang on, I can't let you do that."

"So ye'll just walk?"

"…"

"Alright, that's what I thought. Stay here, my house is just a little ways away. I'll come back to fetch ye."

Paisley wanted to tell him that she didn't want to be fetched, but she held her tongue and nodded. "Thank you."

While she was waiting for him, Paisley had a grand argument with herself about riding alone in a wagon with this stranger.

_So you're really just going to accept a ride from this strange and not to mention insulting boy, just so you won't have to lug a sack around the moors?_

_Well, why not? He offered._

_Well, you don't have to accept! You don't even know his name!_

_He can't be that bad. He seemed worried about me carrying such a heavy thing._

_So did Mr. Quimby…_

_Well, he's not like Mr. Quimby._

_How do you know?_

_I don't! He just feels safer than Mr. Quimby._

_Oh, he feels __**safe**_—_**that's**__ a good reason._

_Oh, shut up._

_Your logic say don't._

_It also says do._

_Logic says don't talk to strangers or get in their wagons._

_It also says sane people don't argue with themselves._

…_Touché._

_And what about that other gentleman yesterday? You got in __**his**__ carriage._

_He was a gentleman…This man is not._

_He offered you a ride, how much more gentlemanly can he be?_

_Hmm, let's see, a lot? He's already insulted you, and called you 'woman'._

_Father called mother 'woman'._

_Exactly. He likes you. Is it really safe to get into a wagon with someone like that?_

Paisley had no time to answer herself, because the young man was back with a wagon. "Are ye ready? I'll load the sack into the back."

Paisley nodded with out answering; instead, she gave him the oats and pulled herself up onto the seat.

He threw them into the back, trying not to think about how close he was going to sit to the pretty girl named Paisley. He dusted off his hands and climbed up next to Paisley. He slapped the reins once. "Let's be off, then."

#################

A/N: blanket disclaimer that i forgot to put in at the beginning: i do not own _Secret Garden_ (book or movies) or the characters within! they belong to their respective owner(s). all i own is this plot and Paisley, Uncle Harold, and Mr. Quimby (unfortunately).


	4. Chapter 4

Paisley chewed her lip as the wagon began rolling. She was so deep in thought, she almost didn't hear the young man's question. "… house?"

She jerked out of her reverie. "What? I'm terribly sorry, do you mind repeating that?"

"I just asked where your house would be."

"Oh," She tried to get her bearings. "Well, all I know is that it's several miles from the village, in… that direction? East, I believe."

He blinked, looking at her peculiarly. "What?" she asked, confused.

"Ye wouldn't 'appen to be related to Harold Burke, would ye?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

He shrugged, settling back down. "Just that you're too pretty to be a relative of Harold Burke."

Paisley was about to reply with an indignant remark, when she decided to reign in her annoyance. After all, he _was_ giving her a ride. "He's not that bad-looking, is he?"

"I won't say anything against him, seeing as you're a relative. Anyroad, how are you related to the old codger? Can't be a daughter— he never married and didn't have any children."

She shifted uncomfortably. "I'm his niece. On my mother's side."

"I didn't know he had a sister."

"She left when she was fairly young."

"She'd have to be pretty old to be any sister of Burke's."

"Actually," Paisley stifled a laugh. "I think he may be going white early. Perhaps from my arrival. I daresay he's not used to women or cleanliness."

"Aye, you'd turn any man's head white."

Paisley scowled at him, but saw the playful smile on his face and relaxed. They traveled a bit more before Paisley sat up, exclaiming, "Oh!"

The young man prepared to halt the horse if necessary. "What? What is it?"

"I apologize if I alarmed you, but I just remembered that I don't know your name."

He laughed. "It's alright. Me name's Dickon. Dickon Sowerby. And what about _ye_? I know your first name is Paisley, but I don't know your family name."

She smiled, the first time she had done so in his presence. "McBurl. My mother was Martha Burke until she married my father."

Dickon laughed again. "My elder sister's name is Martha."

"Martha is a lovely name, isn't it? It makes me think of a queen for some reason."

"Martha's no queen, I can tell ye that. Although, she _has_ worked in a giant mansion, like some queens live in."

"Really?"

"Aye, Misselthwaite Manor." A pang went through his chest as he thought of the manor and its occupants. "Lord Craven lives there with his son and… niece."

Thankfully, Paisley didn't notice his hesitation. "How wonderful. I didn't know there were any manors still about here. Someday I'll just have to go up on a hill and look at it. After all, looking is about all I'll ever get to do."

"Would ye like to see it up close?" The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Paisley turned to him, astonished. "How? They wouldn't know me, and I'm just a commoner."

Dickon decided that he might as well fill in the hole he'd dug himself. "I'm good… friends with Lord Craven's son and niece. We grew up together when we were still young. His niece is… she came here from India when her parents died. She's English through and through though." He couldn't believe he was telling her so much about Mary— Miss Mary. He never talked about Miss Mary, not even to Martha. "She's… engaged to her cousin, Colin Craven."

She looked at him worriedly. "But are you sure they'd allow a perfect stranger to come to the manor?"

"They've been asking me to visit for a while now. I've been meaning to, and I'm sure they'd be happy. How about tomorrow?"

She was silent a moment, and he thought she was going to refuse, until she said, "Thank you. I'd be delighted."

He smiled wryly at her. "Miss Mary's going to be fair pleased to have the company of a refined lady her age. Not many around here."

"What? Who, me? What makes you think I'm refined?"

"Ye talk like a well-bred person, without the Yorkshire accent most people have hereabouts. Though, I did happen to overhear a 'wee bit o' Scotch' coming out when ye were dressing me down."

Paisley frowned at him. "Scotch is an alcoholic drink— the proper term is Scottish. And yes, I'm afraid I did let loose a little with my mother-tongue. But you must understand, you made me very, very mad."

"So why do ye do it?"

"Do what?" she asked in annoyance.

"Talk like you're a fancy toff, when you're not."

She shrugged. "I'm not sure. Mother made sure she spoke in very concise and refined tones, and I suppose I picked it up there. Besides," She grinned. "No one here would be able to understand me."

He arched an eyebrow, glancing sideways at her. "_I_ understood ye pretty well, up there on the moor yesterday…"

She scowled. "Will you please desist in reminding me of my dreadful behavior? I've already apologized once."

"Well," He scratched his head in mock thoughtfulness. "As I remember, ye didn't actually apologize. Ye just sort of… weaseled your way out of it."

Paisley sat up indignantly. "I never weasel out of anything. When I am at fault I admit it graciously. Mr. Sowerby, please accept my most humble apologies for my extremely rude behavior to you yesterday. It was uncalled for and I regret my terrible actions and words deeply. If there is anything I can do to make it up to you, I encourage you, please do not hesitate to ask."

Dickon stared at her. "…"

She nodded politely. "I never weasel my out of anything."

He pushed his cap back in amazement. "Ye certainly don't at that. Oak wood and ash tree, ye sounded like a bonnie grand poet then! Where did ye learn such great apologizing?"

She smiled demurely. "Spur of the moment, Mr. Sowerby."

"My name's not Mr. Sowerby, Paisley. It's Dickon."

Paisley turned, smiling politely, but her tone was flat. "And my name is Miss McBurl."

"Oh. I see." He turned back to the road moodily.

She nudged him and he turned to see her grinning. "But, tomorrow, I think I might be Paisley. But only between you and I, alright?"

Dickon could not help smiling back. "Alright, _Miss_ McBurl."

They were drawing near a little side road that Paisley saw eventually led to he uncle's small farm. Unfortunately, it was to skinny for the wagon, and Dickon was forced to halt at its entrance. Another wagon sat near them, its horse idly eating the grass along the dirt road. Paisley's brow furrowed in confusion. "Uncle has a guest…?"

Dickon helped her down from the wagon. "I'll walk you to the door."

"Oh, that's not necessary"

He laughed. "How do ye expect to get the oats there?"

"Oh. A very good point. Thank you. For everything. I wouldn't have made it here until nightfall if it weren't for you."

He shouldered the bag as they set off down the small lane. "Oh, I don't know about that. Ye look pretty strong to me."

"Go on, you." She fluttered her eyelashes mockingly. "I'm just a delicate butterfly who would be lost without you."

"You're no more a delicate butterfly than I am a caterpillar."

"Mmm, I don't know— you look pretty fuzzy to me."

"I haven't shaved since yesterday, but I doubt I'm that hairy."

"Hmm, you haven't looked in a mirror lately, have you?"

His hand immediately went to his chin and he almost dropped the oats. Paisley laughed. "I was only joking."

"I can't tell wi' ye."

"And that's just how I want it." Paisley blushed inwardly. _I can't believe I just said that!_

They reached the gate and Paisley opened it, saying, "I'm sure Uncle would be pleased to have you for tea—."

"I'm not sure he can be pleased about anything—." He noticed her staring. "What's wrong, Paisl— I mean, Miss McBurl?" He followed the direction her eyes went. He clenched his jaw.

John Quimby stood talking to Mr. Burke, who seemed nonplussed, while Quimby was growing red. Paisley heard him say, "Fine! Have it your way, old man! If you can't…" His voice lowered and she wasn't able to hear the rest.

He left her uncle, stomping towards the gate. When he saw the two people there, his expression changed from the stormy demeanor to an oily smile. "My dear lady. Good afternoon."

As he walked past, Dickon stepped closer to Paisley, protectively, glaring at the eel as he slithered out. Paisley grimaced at his back before running worriedly to the figure still standing in the yard. "Uncle Harold! What ever did he want? I told him you'd already paid for the oats."

Her uncle shrugged, pulling out a pipe and lighting it, speaking out of the side of his mouth so he wouldn't lose the pipe. "Wanted to court ye, Patches, er, P... er, pa…"

Dickon spoke up defensively. "Her name is Paisley, Harold."

Burke glanced at him briefly. "'Afternoon, Sowerby. Right. He wanted to court ye, Paisley. Wanted my permission."

Paisley was aghast. "You didn't… you didn't say yes, did you?"

Her uncle looked up. "Of course not. Should I 'ave?"

"No, no! Not at all! What was he yelling about though?"

He shrugged again. "Said if I didn't let him court you he'd seize my property and evict me."

Dickon broke in. "He can't do that unless…" His eyes darkened. "Burke, what have you done?"

Paisley looked from one to the other. "What? What does it mean?"

Dickon ground his teeth. "You didn't, Burke…"

Mr. Burke sighed. "Had no choice, really. Couldn't afford to keep the farm otherwise."

"What is he talking about?"

Dickon turned to Paisley. "A few months ago, Quimby was going round the farms— the ones that were especially poor— talking to the farmers about buying their farms."

"Why would he want to buy small farms?"

"Because, once he owns them, he can have power over the farmers by threatening to evict them. The farmers pay monthly fees until they finally buy back the house, but he raises the price from what he bought it for, so it'll take a long time to pay it off."

Paisley stared at her uncle, ashen-faced, who shifted uncomfortably. "Uncle, did you…?"

Dickon nodded grimly. "Aye, he did. He's sold himself to the devil."

Paisley shot him a disapproving look. "Mr. Sowerby…" To her uncle, she said, "Was he threatening to evict you?"

Burke nodded glumly. "I'm not at all rich, and times were hard a few months back. It seemed like a good idea, but I suppose that was panic setting in."

Paisley stared at the ground blankly. "Good Lord, have mercy… Uncle Harold, how much do you owe?"

He told her.

"Oh, dear. That is quite a lot. Well, there's only one thing to do."

Dickon looked suspiciously at her. "What's that?"

"I'll just have to court… Mr. Quimby…"


	5. Chapter 5

"Would you like tea, Uncle?"

"Yes, please…"

"There you are. Mr. Sowerby?"

Dickon growled, "No, thank you, Miss McBurl." He sat squirming in his chair as she poured calmly. Finally, he said, "To blazes wi' it! Paisley, ye can't marry scum like Quimby."

Without looking up, she answered, "I never said I was going to marry him. All I said was I decided to court him."

"It's the same thing!"

"No, it's not. I'll just court him till Uncle can pay off the house. Keep him happy for a while."

Dickon glared at her. "Paisley, it's going to take a long time for your uncle to pay Quimby all the money. By then, he might have pressured you into marriage."

She shook her head. "I won't let him. May I remind you that I can be very forceful when needed."

"He'll pull the same trick again, but instead he'll take away the farm if you don't marry him."

She thought, biting her lip as she sat.

"It won't work, Paisley."

"It has to. I'm afraid that's our only option."

They sat in silence at the small kitchen table that doubled as a "dining-room" table, in the small farmhouse that was at that minute in jeopardy— Burke puffing his pipe steadily; Dickon fuming quietly; Paisley thinking very deeply.

Dickon looked at the thinking Paisley. "Ye know, Quimby is a nasty man. He might… try something w' ye."

"I have no doubt that he will."

He started. "How do ye know that?"

"I saw it in his eyes, in the store, and as he passed me us at the gate. He is indeed a very nasty man."

"There, ye see! Ye can't court a man like that."

She smiled sadly. "As I've said before— I must." She brightened, taking the teapot to the stove to warm it. "But, I do know how to defend myself, if it's a comfort to you. Goodness knows, it's a comfort to me!"

"How could ye defend yourself from a grown man like that?"

"There are ways. I grew up in the highlands, you know, where women have to be tough survive."

Dickon sat up straight. "No, I didn't know that. The highlands, ye say? Grand country up there, I understand."

Paisley could not help gushing about her home. "Oh, yes. It's the most beautiful place I've ever seen. On a clear day, the sun shines down into the stream, dancing about on the pebbles, and the lambs frolic about in the meadow near my home. Not much of a meadow, though. Very thick heath near us, but if you're willing to walk a fair distance, the most gorgeous green grass holds the rare wildflower and a few butterflies. Of course," she added, embarrassed about her outburst. "We don't get very many sunny days. They're a real treasure."

Her uncle took his pipe from his mouth long enough to comment. "How poetic."

Dickon raised an eyebrow above his smiling eyes. "'Gorgeous', eh?"

"Oh, yes, sorry. It's just… I suppose I miss it. It's mostly cloudy though. A bit like here. Silly of me to go on and on like that."

"No, no, it was very nice. Like something out of a fairy book, or one of those nature books."

She gazed out the window, her hand under her chin. "I think that the only real way to enjoy nature is to experience it. You can't get the real thing from a book."

Dickon was amazed at this so seemingly proper young lady, who had the same philosophy he had. Well, at least one he had had when he was younger. And more in-tune with the animals. It startled him to think of it, but he realized that he had been drifting away from the animals— as well as the humans.

Paisley smiled at him, tilting her head. "You're looking very deep. A scone for your thoughts."

"Don't you mean a penny?"

"No, I haven't got a penny. But I do have scones." She produced a basket covered with a cloth.

"I'll take a scone."

"Ah," She stopped him before he reached under the folds. "Thought first."

He smiled wryly, sitting back in his chair. "You're a hard woman. Alright. I was thinking about the animals I know. I haven't exactly been friendly with them lately."

She smiled, but he knew she didn't understand. "Why is that? You seem nice enough."

"Well, my sister says I've been moody. I suppose that could be the reason."

"Animals do seem to sense what mood you're in, don't they? It's almost as if they understood."

She had no idea.

Paisley continued. "We once had a dog— I'm not sure what breed it was; I think it was a mutt— and he always came round to me when I was feeling sad. He'd nuzzle me and try to get me to play with him. I'd end up rolling arou— well, I'd end up feeling happy and playing with him. And when I was already happy, he'd be content to lay his head in my lap, just lying there until the sheep came home."

Dickon grinned at her. "Rolling around, eh?"

She became very interested in the basket of scones. "Well, anyways— oh! Here. The scone for your thoughts. Would you like butter on it?"

"Yes, please."

"Uncle? Scone?"

"Mmm."

Paisley took that to be an affirmative. "So, Mr. Sowerby, what sorts of animals are you acquainted with?"

He shrugged. "Foxes, crows, mice, rabbits, owls, horses…" He began feeling foolish as he listed them, but he was reassured by the sparkle that appeared in Paisley's eyes. "Really?" she asked with great interest. "But don't those animals usually eat each other? Except for the horse, I mean."

"Well, yes, but I try to keep them from making a snack of one another. And, ye never know wi' horses. I once knew a horse that accidently swallowed a dormouse that was crawling about in his hay."

Paisley studied his serious face for a moment before saying, "Mr. Sowerby, you're joking."

"How can ye tell?"

"Your face may say otherwise, but your eyes are laughing at me."

"Well, I'll try to tell them not to be so rude, but that moment when ye almost believed me was very amusing."

"I'm sure it was. Almost as amusing as it was for that poor dormouse."

He stared at her. "I believe ye just made a joke."

"I believe I did."

"Wi' a straight face no less."

Uncle Harold, who had dozed off, awoke with a snort, his pipe almost dropping from his lips. "Eh? What, what?" He looked at Dickon. "'oo are ye? Oh, right, Sourdough. No, that's not right… Sowerby, that's it."

Dickon nodded politely. "Right, sir. I'll just be leaving now. Thank ye for the lovely tea." He rose, along with Paisley, who walked him to the door. She smiled, seeing the expression on his face. "No, Mr. Sowerby. I won't reconsider my decision. What's done is done, and I must make things right."

"Must ye do it this way?"

She nodded assuredly. "Yes, I must."

He sighed. "I can see I can't change you're mind. Well, are ye still coming wi' me to Misselthwaite tomorrow?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Good. I'll meet ye at the end of the lane."

"I'll bring a basket of some food."

"Right. … Well… good day."

"Good day." She watched him leave, and even waited till she saw him get up on the wagon and slap the reins. Paisley went back in the house with a small smile on her face, anticipating the next day eagerly.

xxxXXXxxx

Lucy made her doll walk along in the dirt, giving it directions as if she were a governess talking to her young charge. "Now, then Miss Moppet. We must glide along as if we 'ave wings, or the fancy toffs— pardon— the fancy, rich gentlemen won't think we're angels, will they? No, 'course not. Fancy rich, handsome gents want to marry angels. And we don't want disappoint them, do we?"

She navigated Miss Moppet around a small puddle. "Ladies never walk— or jump— through puddles. We'd get our skirts and shoes all dirty. Ladies' must always be spotless—." She looked up, seeing her eldest brother come rolling in with the wagon. She hadn't even realized the family horse and cart had been taken.

Lucy leapt up, screaming, "MUM! MUM! Dickon's back! He's back, Mum!" She raced to the house, only to have to go back and rescue Miss Moppet from being trampled by the horse's hooves. She resumed her run once the doll was safely in her arms, still yelling with her small, yet powerful lungs.

"Mum, he's back! He stole the horse! AND the cart! He's back now! Mum! MUM! MU—." She ran right into her mother, becoming enveloped in the huge white apron covering her mother's skirt.

Mrs. Sowerby patted her head tenderly. "Now then, what's all the fuss about? Goodness, Lucy, you're going to bring all the neighbors running, screaming bloody murder like that." She glanced up at Dickon, who was unhitching the horse in the small barn, as if everything was normal. "Hello, Dickon, dear. Staying for supper? My, I didn't think we'd see ye back until later, seeing as ye took that pretty girl home."

He stared at her curiously, walking over to hug his mother. "And how do ye know about that, then?"

"Oh, Charlotte saw ye ride out o' the village."

He shook his head. Charlotte, another of his younger sisters, seemed to know anything and everything that was going on. His mother often said she was like a small bird in a tree— watching and listening unseen— except that, unlike little birds, Charlotte was able to tell all that she had seen and heard. And she almost always did.

"Aye, mum. I'm staying for supper."

"Good. You can help me by setting the table."

He laughed, hugging her again, bending over slightly, as he had become taller than her. "And I suppose ye'd like me to bake some bread too, to go with supper, eh?"

"No, I've already done that. But ye can take it out of the oven. I've got me hands full with this stew."

Dickon followed her inside, where he was greeted by his siblings loudly.

"'Allo, Dickon!"

"Finally comin' round here again, are ye?"

"Look, look! The hermit's come out of 'is 'ole!"

"Did ye bring me somefing, Dickon?"

"Dickon, brother dearest. Who was that young woman ye were with earlier?"

The last question was from Charlotte, who was slightly older than the young 'uns, but still not quite old enough yet to be considered in her teens. She thought herself quite the lady, though, and persisted in acting as "mature" as she possibly could. In Dickon's opinion, she acted about as mature as a three year-old.

He tweaked her nose, knowing how much she hated the gesture. "Never ye mind, Miss Nosy. What were ye doing in the village anyways?"

She rubbed the tender spot, shrugging innocently. "Just walking about."

"More like just snooping about. Mark my words, Lottie: someday that nose of yours is going to get ye into trouble."

She scowled at him. "My name is _Charlotte_. I'm too old for 'Lottie' anymore."

"You're not too old to pout, though, I see."

_Charlotte_ stamped her foot, retreating into the kitchen, and Dickon managed to dodge the question about Paisley.

Mrs. Sowerby poked her head out of the kitchen. "It's so good to have ye home, Dickon."

He glanced about at the mess of children, grinning. "It's good to be home, mum."


	6. Chapter 6

Paisley took her shawl from the hat rack, double-checking her basket. "Alright, Uncle. I'm off."

Harold Burke gave a grunt in reply, not looking up from his breakfast. He was too preoccupied with the delicious bacon.

Paisley bit her lip, opening the door and looking back. "Well… goodbye, Uncle Harold."

Another grunt was the only response. She smiled thinly, stepping out. She was immediately met by one of the sheep, who wanted to nibble on the hem of her dress. "No, no," she scolded. "Back you go. How did you get out of your pen anyways? No matter— you're going back."

Paisley herded the passive sheep back in with the others and the goat in the grazing pen. She turned a mock glare on the others, saying, "He's not the only one to blame, now. Imagine that— you naughty little children egging him on."

She looked at the goat. "You too. I don't play favorites, least of all with you. You're as much to blame. The leader, I'll wager." The sheep that had wandered out nudged her, giving her an almost mournful look. "I've got no time for feeling sorry. Och, stay here, and I'll let it by, ye silly beast."

Paisley backed out, pressing back the sheep that tried to follow her. "Goodbye then, children. Stay there and don't worry. I'll be back." She smiled as she left. Somehow the sheep had calmed her down from her high strung nerves about her outing with Dicko— Mr. Sowerby.

Her face fell as she found her anxiousness. Och, crivens.

She walked down the small lane, already seeing the wagon ahead, as well as its driver. She must have chewed her lip halfway through by the time she got to the end of the lane. Instead of acknowledging Dickon, she said hello to the horse first.

"How are you today? Is he treating you well? I'm sorry you had to come all the way out here just for me. It was his idea, not mine," She playfully gestured with a shake of her head in Dickon's direction. "Oh, I just remembered." From her basket, she produced a nice, orange carrot, which the horse found in her hand very quickly. "Oh, so you like carrots, do you? How do you feel about apples? You like them? Well, then, I'll bring one next time."

Dickon had been alarmed when she responded to Harreth's affirmative to her question about apples, but quickly put aside the notion that she had understood, telling himself it was just a coincidence. Everyone knew horses liked apples. He felt a thrill, though, when she mentioned a "next time".

The horse snorted in appreciation. _I like this one. But… wasn't she the one who called you all those things up there on the moors? The little spitfire, wasn't she?_

Dickon ignored the horse. "Oh, aye, Harreth is rather fond of carrots. Apples too." He smiled at Paisley. "And those who give them to him."

She smiled back, patting Harreth's head. "We're going to get on famously, I can see."

Dickon couldn't work out who she was referring to— him or the horse— and he was still puzzling over it as he helped her up into the wagon and got up himself, slapping the reins. He casually took a glance at her basket. "And what do we have there?"

Paisley knew the contents, but she lifted the cloth to check anyways. "Bread, some cheese, two apples (Sorry Harreth, none for you), some plum cordial, and a lemon-curd tart."

He couldn't keep the happy grin from springing up on his face. "Lemon-curd tart, eh? My favorite dessert!"

"Really?"

"Oh, aye." He winked at her. "One of many."

"Ah, so I see you're like all other men: you enjoy your dessert."

"Well, I don't enjoy it _quite_ so much as other people."

Paisley smiled wryly. "Yes, I have noticed that you're a bit trimmer than some. Not too much trimmer, though."

He glanced down at his mid-drift automatically, looking up to her grin. "I hope you're just joking."

"I am. You're very fit. In excellent health, in fact."

"I feel as if I'm a horse being inspected by a veterinary." He pronounced the word as "vitnery".

"Open your mouth and I'll check your teeth, and then we'll see how healthy you really are."

"Ye try to check my teeth and I'll bite your fingers."

She shrugged. "It's alright. I'll just check them when you're opening your mouth for lemon-curd tart."

"It'll be gone so fast ye won't have a chance."

"Now _that_, I believe."

"Aye, I'm a champion dessert-eater."

_Aye,_ Harreth agreed.

Dickon almost forgot himself and answered the horse's jibe, but fortunately he caught himself. "Ah… well… are ye ready to meet the Cravens?"

Paisley fidgeted with her dress. "I suppose so… Are you sure it's not a bother? They do know we're coming, right?"

He looked at the clouds. "Well, not exactly."

"What?"

He hastened to reassure her. "I was going to have Martha tell them we were coming, but today is her day off. It doesn't matter, though. They'll be pleased to see us, I'm sure. They've been after me to come round for quite some time."

" Yes, you mentioned that before. Why is that, anyways?"

"Er, well… Tha's a long story."

"We've got a fair bit of road to travel."

He looked away uncomfortably. "Well… ye see… People say I'm a bit of a… hermit."

"I know."

"Ye do?"

"Yes, Uncle Harold told me."

"Oh. Well, I haven't exactly been… friendly with the Cravens since we became adults."

She laughed. "You're hardly an adult."

He sat up indignantly. "I'm eighteen."

"Very well. You're _almost_ an adult. It's not the same."

"I thought ye wanted to hear the story."

"I'm sorry. Please continue."

"Well, I haven't been round Misselthwaite manor in a while, so I suppose they're just curious as to what happened to me. It's nothing big."

"What did happen to you?"

Dickon looked at Paisley's inquisitive face. "What do ye mean?"

"That wasn't exactly a long story. There must be more to it."

"There is, but I'm not obliged to tell it at the time."

"I've noticed that when people say something is a long story, they usually mean they don't want to talk about it. I understand, and I won't press you further."

Dickon nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. "Thank ye."

"I'll just ask the Cravens, or your sister."

"Ye'll do no such thing!"

She stared him down. "I will. It's obvious I won't get anything from you, so I'll go to another source."

He stared just as evenly. "If this is a ploy to get me to tell ye, it won't work."

"I assure you, it's not."

"The Cravens know nothing."

Paisley smiled, understanding. "But your _sister_ will."

Dickon realized the danger of his situation. "Why are ye so determined to be nosy?"

"I am _not_ nosy!"

"Ye are. You're getting into things that don't concern ye. That's being nosy."

Paisley sat in silence, her expression hidden by her bangs.

Harreth snorted. _Nice going._

Dickon slapped the reins a bit harder than necessary. Harreth kept the same pace. _I assume that was punishment, and not an indication that you want to go faster._

Dickon began to grow uncomfortable with the silence and was about to apologize, but Paisley spoke first. "I'm… sorry. I _was_ being nosy. I promise I won't ask your sister or the Cravens about it. They're your private affairs, and I won't get into them."

Dickon ran a hand through his hair ruefully. "I'm sorry as well. I shouldn't have been so harsh."

"Oh, no, you weren't harsh. As a matter of fact, I'm a bit aghast at my own actions. I'm not normally this intrusive. I don't know what's gotten into me." She smiled weakly. "Perhaps it's this English air that's doing it to me."

"Don't try to blame it on the air, now."

"Well, then perhaps I should blame it on the company…"

He shrugged. "You'd probably be right in doing so." He grinned. "Handsome young devils like me often send young women into a fluster."

"That description is spot on for you— except for the 'handsome' and 'young' part."

"I _am_ handsome, and I'm certainly young. Lots of young girls clamoring for my hand, there are. Why, I may be the most eligible bachelor in the surrounding area."

"Mmm, and the most modest one."

"Oh, aye. That too."

Paisley gasped, and Dickon prepared to stop the wagon, just in case. "What? What is it, Miss McBurl?"

"Is that Misselthwaite Manor?"

Dickon stared at the foreboding castle that was so familiar to him. "Aye, it is."

"Dickon! Dickon, is that you?"

"By George, I think it is! Hello, Dickon!"

"Who's that lady with him?"

"I don't know."

Dickon cursed under his breath, making Paisley jump, scolding him. "Mr. Sowerby! That is hardly gentlemen-like behavior."

Coming towards them on horseback, two figures, a man and a woman, waved to them.

Dickon shook his head. "Don't look now, but here come Lord Craven and Ms. Lennox." Under his breath, he added, "And my doom."

######

A/N: sorry about the late update!


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